


When Skies are Gray

by Whovian_Overload



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birth, F/M, Pregnancy, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whovian_Overload/pseuds/Whovian_Overload
Summary: The Doctor leans towards his wife and presses a kiss to her temple. Words, he knows, are not worth trying to figure out now. Despite being his best weapon, he finds that they are very much not useful in situations like this; moments where there’s nothing the words will change. Twenty four years of peace and he’s never needed to use his weapon within these four walls. Never with her.“I thought we’d see it,” she whispers after some time.





	When Skies are Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Initial idea: What if they never really got to see the sun rise? 
> 
> A few scenes from their last night on Darillium. The idea was originally more angsty, but damn it I couldn't leave them like that so I added a happier ending. This fic has no connection to my other Darillium fic, Clara, just another take on how that night might have been spent. Not beta'd so please let me know if there are huge grammatical/editing errors. The warning label is mostly because of the graphics in and after the birth scene-- I wanted to emphasize that one does not just get up and continue the battle after having a baby, unlike women do on TV (I'm looking at you Aeryn Sun.) 
> 
> Enjoy :3

There is the dark.

 

Achluophobia is the technical term for the fear River had been purged of in her first decade of life. Asking her current adult self will earn a claim of never being born with that fear in the first place, but even River Song was once a child. (She claims that was probably not true either.)

 

There is the deep and lovely dark-- Twenty-four years of it to be more exact. The night is warm for the first dozen of them and cools down when dawn comes closer. It’s not the frigid absence of light that she’s had the misfortune of growing up with.

 

Greystark Hall, Stormcage, Demon's Run, and countless other hostile places she doesn’t talk about-- she doesn’t _think_ about to try and avoid the less than pleasant memories. They’re behind her, even if her dear Doctor has to remind her of that every other day. He’s much too good to her and she probably doesn’t deserve it, but he insists that she does. She doesn’t need to be strong for him, not anymore. Sometimes he has to remind her of that, too.

 

The dark is wonderful when he’s there in it. She’s used to more villainous creatures lurking where she can’t see; It takes her a few years to get the nightmares to stop.

 

Memories to legends to dreams. This oldest version gives her peaceful nights.

 

There is the dark: ever colder as dawn approaches. For the first time in her life, River finds herself afraid of the light.

 

It’s their last year when the nightmares return.

 

_There are cold, hoarse voices of unseen things. Hands pushing her onto already bruised knees. She can’t remember why her body hurts until a number of sharp things strike her back. Perhaps someone is flogging her. Maybe a bear mauling her. She even considers that it’s a giant cheese grater before the sharp thing strikes her again and she stops caring what it is, just wanting it to stop hurting._

 

_She can hear someone crying, sobbing and shouting. A small and young voice she realizes was her own, though her current body has never made such sounds._

 

_“Stop crying.” The voices say. “Stop this weakness and get up. Stop crying.” The sharp thing is thrust into her little-girl-hands and larger hands push her shoulders back._

 

_She lands wounds first on the ground before something hard starts beating her from the front this time. She raises her arms in defense, her forearms cracking at the next blow._

 

_“Fight back, you weak, stupid girl. Fight back. Get up!”_

 

_She can’t move, her arms locked above her head; a failing attempt to keep her beater away._

 

_It’s stinging. Everywhere was stinging. Her back, her knees, her head, like biting insects or salt rubbed wounds. Her hands feel and warm and she can’t see but she’s sure the fluid is red._

 

_A strike down on her head and her spine jolts agonizingly. She grasps for control of her limbs, but the dark is too suffocating. She can’t breathe anymore._

 

 _Someone is holding her arms back now, no longer allowing her to curl in defense. Something tears into her abdomen and her little girl self screams._ Her adult form jolts awake, mouth open but voice silent.

 

Her chest hurts, both of her hearts are beating so hard it feels like her sternum might crack. Her whole body shakes and she can feel each throbbing, double pulse of her overworked circulatory system pushing against every vessel within her. She’s hot and cold all at the same time, gasping for air.

 

Her hands fly down to the spot on her rounded middle that had been torn into in the dream, finding nothing but scars. No blood. No pain. She squeezes her eyes shut, really just trying to breathe without her teeth hurting.

 

She feels sick now.

 

Their 30-hour house clock is at hour one-- The Doctor likes to call it midnight, but River claims that the only midnight they experienced was 12 years ago.

 

River glances towards the window, finding rain outside. The Doctor, still asleep on the other side of the bed, likes the rain well enough; it blankets everything with quiet, and it is a lively sight when the light from the bright Darillium moons peak through the clouds.

 

The third moon had set two years ago.

 

Her breathing is still shaky as she sits up. The cold sweat that clings to her cools down her heated skin.  River doesn’t care much for rain. She’d had enough of it in Stormcage even with her having constantly been breaking out. She often tried to sleep through it when she was there, which really just conditioned her to become drowsy when she heard the rain. She is tired more often than not these days, though this is for a whole different reason which started nine months ago.

 

River lets the feeling of the floor beneath her feet act as an anchor to reality as she eases herself up to standing. Her swollen midsection makes the task more difficult than necessary.

 

It takes no time for gravity to remind her that there is an entire person sitting on her bladder. She waddles off to the bathroom.

 

-x-

 

“Doctor?” River’s voice floats from the other room, the kitchen the Doctor suspects. Blinks a few times as his brain catches up and becomes confused as to why River isn’t in bed beside him.

 

“Yes?” The Doctor replies instantly.

 

“Could you come in here?”

 

He can tell there is something off, quite a number of things possibly. He lifts himself from bed quickly and heads down stairs.

 

River is leaned over the sink, her hands gripping either side and her head bowed. The window in front of her casts a dull, reddish light over her that he can’t help but admire, which is why it takes him a moment to realize the things wrong with this picture.

 

_Light._

 

The moons had set years ago, and there is no sound of a vehicle passing. Light shouldn’t be coming through the window. He steps towards her hoping the dull, reddish light is just a trick. His stomach tightens, however, because he can see that it isn’t. It’s weak, but the light is coming from the sky.

 

Swallowing, he notices the second thing wrong with the picture, which is River herself. Her posture is tense, looking at the floor, not the sky. His eyes go to where he imagines she’s staring and finds that between her feet there is water on the floor...

 

Not water.

 

“Oh…” He finds himself saying out loud, finally closing the distance between them. They fit together easily, one of her hands moving from holding the sink edge to gripping his shoulder. His own arm moves around her waist. “Are you alright?”

 

“No,” she whispers and he needs no more explanation than that. She looks up at him with an expression that he feels wrong as describing as fear, but he’s sure it’s something close.

 

Outside their kitchen window, the rain picks up a bit. Drops beat down on the leaves of the tree they’d planted on their first day in this house. The flowers below it have closed up their petals for protection. Water drips steadily off their roof and the roof of the blue police box that sits outside, landing deafeningly in the silence that has filled the kitchen. It pools in muddy puddles in the reddish soil of the garden.

 

The Doctor leans towards his wife and presses a kiss to her temple. Words, he knows, are not worth trying to figure out now. Despite being his best weapon, he finds that they are very much not useful in situations like this; moments where there’s nothing the words will change. Twenty four years of peace and he’s never needed to use his weapon within these four walls. Never with her.

 

“I thought we’d see it,” she whispers after some time.

 

Golden light. They’ve both dreamed of it plenty: a picnic, a dance, a meal… some last grand gesture as the sun rose and they saw each other in the same golden light they started with.

 

It wasn’t like they’d been completely without a sun all this time, they traveled as often as they breathed. They had watched countless turns of alien stars and basked under every sun in the quadrant. Just not _this_ sun.

 

And here they are of the eve of the end of their peace, and the light is dim and dull and the sky gray and wet.

 

“Me, too,” he echoes. Their hourglass is on its last grains of sand, but he’s the Doctor and he likes to think he has a way with time. Today, it’s all the hope either of them has.

 

-x-

 

He’s never had much of a problem with the white sheets River had chosen for their bed. It’s a huge, four post bed with currently tied up curtains to match the linens, and dark wood. River was keen on washing everything regularly to keep it all pristine. She had said that she wanted something bright to make up for their years of dark night to come. He always finds that all the brightness comes from her, not the sheets.

 

At the moment, however, the whiteness of the sheets is unsettling to him. It all seems too sterile, like the lack of color is trying to wipe clean the memories that had filled this room in the last 24 years. He feels small in the bed, huddled on one side over River with the rain beating down from the ever lightening sky.

 

She lies mostly on her back with a pillow under her left side that tilts her slightly towards her husband who is perched over her. His hand presses into the mattress by her left side hip, holding himself above her so he can use his other hand to stroke a wet rag across her brow. Her own hands have a tight grip on him, one clinging to his right arm and the other to his left shoulder.

 

The sheet covering her sticks to her heated skin, as does her hair. Nardole stands nervously by the door, wringing his hat in his hands. The sheet is really only there for his comfort; the heat it traps is really starting to bother her. She’s almost sure the poor man is sweating as much as she is. Her breaths come fast, even in the brief periods of rest.

 

When the contractions hit and her face twists in pain, the Doctor cradles the back of her head and she tucks her chin down to her chest. The cries she makes tug at his hearts, but all he can do is hold her through it.

 

She’s in a rush, the others can feel it. Her hands clench and unclench around the fabric of the Doctor’s dress shirt, half with pain and half with worry. The sky had already moved from dark red to a lighter brown when she started pushing and they’ve been at this for hours.

 

She wants to hold the baby more than she wants the sun to disappear, but she knows they’re already on borrowed time. Still, her efforts become more desperate with each new contraction.

 

River’s eyes remain shut, for the most part, focusing wholly on the task at hand. On the occasion that she does open her eyes, the sight of her husband’s silhouette sends a disconsolate ache through her chest. They never had much in way of distinct shadows when the moons were still in the sky. Everything had been dressed in a soft and gentle darkness where every shadow was hazed; one in the same.

 

She squints now at the whiteness that glows behind the man above her. With the clouds masking the beginning of dawn, any creature that lives with shorter day cycles wouldn’t consider this a bright sky. River, regardless, feels like she’s been stretched out on some laboratory table, alone and bare and in pain with nothing but a horribly bright lamp above her, exposing her to all the forces counting down her seconds left with her family.

 

Then the Doctor wipes the cool cloth over her forehead again and suddenly she remembers her husband is just inches from her own face and he is with her in their bed. She breathes and lets the thundering of her hearts become a warning that all of those forces had better sod off while they still can.

 

It truly feels like days before the Doctor whispers that she only needs a few more pushes and suddenly River finds a strange hyper awareness in her senses. It seems to come out of nowhere that this moment, possibly their last moment, stretches out before her like a city: She feels every fiber in the cloth of the sheets and the Doctor’s clothes. She feels the heat in even place they’re touching, every bead of sweat that clings to her skin. She hears every drop of rain hitting the dirt outside and the scream building in her throat. She knows where her face creases as it contorts, she senses every clenched muscle in her body.

 

Then, of course, there is their baby: half born and just one massive push away from the outside world. She had torn when the head had been born, rather badly she suspects from how the Doctor had winced. That isn’t the first warning her body has given her to slow down but there’s no time to listen.

 

She hears a whimper from Nardole that is soon drowned out by her own guttural cry. Armies have run from that cry, the Doctor knows this better than anyone, but Time doesn’t bat an eye.

 

Gasping, River frowns at the release the takes her in such a hurry that she’s nearly numb from it. The sensations around her become nothing but white noise, so unlike they were moments before.

 

A clear feeling cuts through when the Doctor shifts himself away from her. She feels the cold where his touch leaves her and wearily watches his fluid movements. There is no hesitation or shaking like she feels in her own limbs.

 

Between her legs, he lifts with a magnified gentleness their child. It’s red and a bit slimy and wiggling, and as it’s placed on her chest she thinks it’s the most beautiful thing she’s seen in her life.

 

“How long?” she whispers, unsettled by the disloyalty of her wavering voice.

 

She gets no answer and she can’t bring herself to take her eyes off of the whimpering infant on her chest. She has a nagging feeling that if she does look at the Doctor she’ll find tears in his eyes, which she knows will only make her start crying, too. She has no time for that, already furious at the lump in her throat for daring to be there.

 

Her eyes betray her when the Doctor offers a blanket for the baby to be wrapped in, looking up at his as she takes it. The grey morning light of Darillium shines off his eyes that stare back at her with an infinite number of unsaid things that she knows all of; it glints off of the wedding band he insists on wearing all the damn time because he knows it makes her hearts swell; it gleams on the red, wet stains on his hands that match the ones covering their child and her legs.

 

She swallows and wonders how it is that all the very best firsts in her life must come with the most heartbreaking lasts.

 

The Doctor resettles with his arms wrapped around River and the baby. She manages to sit up, leaning against him with the weight of the world on her shoulders and their baby on her chest.

 

Their newest family member makes a small, whimpering noise. River had expected more crying from the baby, though so far it’s mostly content with small whines and squeak-like sounds, with all the crying left for the adults to fill in.

 

The Doctor’s breath hitches at the next coo, his face a mere inch or two from River’s. He gazes at the both of them and kisses the baby’s forehead softly. When he pulls away he moves right towards River, giving her a good and proper kiss and she can no longer hold back her tears. She reaches up to cup his cheek and feels a mirrored wetness on his skin.

 

She’s more aware now of the ache in her body, more aware that the sheets beneath her are starting to feel wetter with her blood, her head starting to spin. A sharp pain jolts through her, not as strong as the labor, but enough that she pulls away from the Doctor with a small gasp. Pressure is building again and she holds onto him as she gives another push. Something hot and smaller than the baby passes and the pressure subsides once more.

 

Nardole makes a quiet exit as the Doctor pulls away slightly. He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a number of small, silver instruments that River can’t be bothered with the details of. She watches her husband wearily as he clamps and cuts the cord just a few inches away from the baby.

 

There’s a pit in her stomach that has nothing to do with the after effects of the birth. There is a short amount of shifting where she sits up a bit more and eases the baby into the Doctor’s arms. The former has started to fall to sleep and remains undisturbed by the movement.

 

River grips the sheets and takes a slow breath as the afterpains start. These pains, she figures very quickly, are just as bad as the main labor was, but she steals her jaw against the urge to make anything more than a grimace.

 

She stares down at her lower half. The bed looks just about as bad as she feels. The placenta lays in a dark, lumpy heap between her legs. Most of the blood seems fresh, bright against the sheets that are no longer her perfect, crisp white.  The stains extend nearly down to her feet and she swallows knowing they’ll never come out.

 

Wincing River starts to ease herself off the bed. The Doctor stands with the baby in one arm, extending the other hand out to help her. She doesn’t take it.

 

Nardole returns by the time River has gotten to the edge of the bed. He has with him a sanitary pad that he‘s plucked out of the freezer. River had read that wearing a frozen pad is supposed to help with the soreness and had stuck some in the ice box last week in anticipation. At the moment, she is grateful for her preparation.

 

Nardole approaches with caution. The sheet that had been covering River before has mostly fallen away, leaving her bare. Nardole doesn’t comment on it, though he can’t deny that he’s a bit squirmish.

 

River nods towards her dresser and the man quickly gets the message. He grabs her knickers, a bra, and a loose dress. He hands the clothes over along with the pad.

 

Getting dressed is a bit of a challenge. Most of the movements required for the task worsen the aches in River’s body or send sharp jolts through her. At this point, she has no notions than she needs to conceal her discomfort, allowing herself to react to the pain however her body decides to, which is mostly vocally.  

 

Still refusing help, she grabs the nearest bed post and slowly pulls herself to her feet. One arm is wrapped around herself in an attempt to brace against afterpains that refuse to let up. Logically she knows they’re not supposed to fade off for a few days, but at least now if she takes something for the pain she won’t be endangering her baby.

 

Nardole, as if reading her mind, produces a couple of pills for her. River doesn’t bother asking what kind they are, downing them without hesitation. She knows it’ll take while for them to kick in, but they’ll help more than nothing (she hopes).

 

River focuses her strength to hobble over to her dresser where she keeps her vortex manipulator. She knows she could’ve had Nardole do it, but at this point, she feels she won’t be able to hold back any emotions if she starts talking.

 

Her breath is heavy when she finally leans against the dresser. Her grip on one of the handles is tight as she rummages and produces the device. Her hands shake as she straps it onto her wrist.

 

She becomes aware of someone’s breath on her neck and turns to see the Doctor right behind her. His expression shows about as much pain as she feels physically, and emotionally, too, for that matter. Her breath hitches when their lips meet, the action coming so swiftly that her overworked mind hadn’t caught him leaning down.

 

She’s kissed this man hundreds, probably thousands of times before. Almost all of his faces have known the joy it is to kiss River Song. This kiss, however, seems to carry the weight of every single one to have come before. It tastes like every first and last they’ve ever had. It lasts impossibly forever and is painfully too short.

 

River has her full weight on him, arms wrapped around his neck though she’s mindful of the sleeping infant in her husband's arms. There’s a wetness on both of their cheeks and neither of them is sure who is the one crying.

 

River’s breathing hasn't steadied out in the slightest when he pulls back, her chest rising and falling without rhythm. The Doctor presses his forehead to hers, his own breath refusing to be let out.

 

It’s River who breaks away eventually, eyes red. The paleness of her color-drained face is exaggerated by the gray light of the cloudy morning. She doesn’t smile as she leans down to place a single, shaking kiss to the brow of her child.

 

When she straightens up again she swallows back something bitter in the back of her throat.

 

“Meet me for lunch, Doctor?” It’s not a question and her voice is only hesitant from exhaustion. “In our favorite spot on the balcony.”

 

She gets no response from him, holding back a grunt as her body reminds her that she’s only just forced an entire person from her body and the recovery won’t be pretty. She can feel the lump in her throat threatening to take over, and before she can let out a proper sob, she presses the activation on her vortex manipulator.

 

-x-

 

He can pretend it is a sunset if he tries hard enough. The light on the Towers looks almost the same as it did 24 years ago. Almost.

 

There’s not much wind now that the clouds have mostly passed, so the music from the Towers is barely audible.

 

The baby in his arms makes a mewling sound, drawing his eyes away from the canyon before him. Just over six hours old and she’s got both of his hearts clutched in her impossibly tiny little hands.

 

Feeding her had been a challenge without her mother present. He hadn’t realized until River left that the baby would need some sort of supplement. The Doctor can only imagine what difficulties relating to breast milk River might be having.

 

He wants to cry every time he looks at their perfect daughter, and he’ll probably never admit to anyone that he did the entire time he bottle-fed her. He can tell she’ll look just like River and wonders how long it will be before he can bring himself to give her a name. He and River had never talked about names.

 

Nardole has been exiled somewhere far away. The Doctor hadn’t meant to snap, but the man reminds him too much of River and he can’t bear looking at him for now.

 

The wind stands fair and the day is perfect-- at least in terms of weather. Now that the rain has gone somewhere else, the activities have picked up. There are supposed to be a number of ceremonies today; The Darillium natives had talked about the sun celebrations all through the night.

 

The restaurant is packed everywhere besides the balcony for such reasons, which is another factor to why the Towers are currently difficult to hear clearly. He had hoped the noise of the bustling place might help shut his thoughts up, but it’s not helping.

 

The Doctor doesn’t know quite why he’s showed up. He can up and leave this planet at any moment and close this chapter forever. It was, by all means, a lovely story with appropriate plot twists and a perfectly tragic ending.

 

The Doctor hates endings. And metaphors. So he refuses to acknowledge either. Instead, he stands with aching hearts and studies canyon and tries very hard not to think about his wife walking headstrong into her death.

 

In his arms, his daughter cooes. He sighs and tears his eye away from the monoliths to look down at her. River’s smaragdine eyes stare back up at him and he swallows hard.

 

The baby wiggles a chubby arm out from her blanket swaddle and starts waving a tiny fist up at him. He finds the corners of his mouth pulling upwards.

 

Adjusting his hold on the infant, he lifts her up to eye level as if examining her. Her little escaped hand grabs his nose. He snorts but lets her keep hold of his face.

 

“You’re going to be just as much of a menace as your mother, aren’t you?” his voice is hoarse, but the baby isn’t one to comment.

 

The baby gums at her tongue then takes her hand back in favor of putting it in her mouth. Her eyes search his face, then settle over his shoulder.

 

The Doctor frowns slightly. Newborns can’t see more than a foot or two away from them, and there’s nothing behind him except a flowered, empty hallway. At least, it should be empty since he’d thoroughly threatened the restaurant staff not to let anyone down here, especially no short, bald men claiming to be a friend.

 

The baby’s eyes crinkle up with a slow blink that the Doctor suspects might have been a smile if her hand wasn’t shoved into her mouth. Her feet kick about inside her blanket swaddle excitedly.

 

Breath on the back of his neck catches him so off guard that he flinches, chills running through him. The shock freezes coherent thought with him for a critical moment, during which the breath carries a single word across his skin.

 

_“Sweetie?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed. Hmu if you have any questions, critiques, compliments, etc. Thanks for reading!


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